The Country of Ice Cream Star

by Sandra Newman

  I take sharp breath. ‘Nay, how you meaning?’

  ‘We’ve known about the cure for years. The Russian army – all of it. Our last eight Christs were Russian. I’ve personally heard these stories five times. I’ve seen the kind of photographs you’re talking about. I’ve even seen a Russian helicopter that crashed down by the coast.

  ‘Sure, most people don’t know. They never get anywhere near these Christs. But Anselm, your apostles? They’ve been planning against this day for years. The only thing we didn’t know was when the Russian army would come.’

  I be mostly trembling now. I clutch into my dressen skirt to hold myself correct. ‘Then why they sent no search?’

  ‘Because it’s not a search.’

  ‘Nay, what it is?’

  ‘Think about it. We can’t fight these Russians, that’s pretty obvious. So what are our choices? What do you think a man like Pedro sees in this?’

  ‘Pedro?’ I seek in my mind. ‘Seem goodly sort enough.’

  ‘Pedro is the most self-interested person I’ve ever known in my life. Okay, I’ll save you time. Pedro wants the cure for himself. And he’ll trade the city for it, everyone here. That’s what that search is. They’re sending Juan to make a deal with the Russians.’

  ‘Deal?’ My voice come false. ‘To sell our children to the roos?’

  ‘That’s right.’ His mouth disgust. ‘That’s not what they’ll tell people, of course. They’ll promise everyone the cure – if they just do what they’re told.’

  A coldness settle on me. ‘But the cure be only for … Pedro?’

  ‘Pedro, the other apostles. Anselm. A few dozen people close to them. Most of those people don’t know it yet, but they’re the chosen. The rest – they’re livestock.’

  Here his voice break weak. He make a loathing face, look to the picture on his wall – the old Maria in her blackish finery. ‘I’m sorry, santa reina. This is the wrong way to tell you this.’

  ‘Ain’t mattering ways.’ I cross my arms against my chills. ‘But how you know? Their … deal and so.’

  ‘Senyora, it’s the plan. Same plan they always had, for when the Russians came. And you understand, the penal company aren’t coming back from that little outing. They’re a first gift.’

  Now Mamadou come in mind. Flash in my heart joyeuse that he escape, be here alive. But then I think of Crow, First Runner – and every thousand children, in this city of my helpless ruling. How they sold in ignorance.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Simón say through my thought. ‘I would have liked to fight your war, for what it’s worth. It was a smart idea.’

  I look to him distracting. ‘So you ain’t agree their plans?’

  ‘No, I did not.’ Simón say thick. ‘I’m a soldier, santa reina. I die for my city, my city doesn’t die for me.’

  ‘But why you vanish all these weeks?’ My voice catch high. ‘Why you ain’t been? If I known sooner, we can stop them.’

  Simón stand up like sudden impatience. Turn to a soldier coat hung by and fetch it from its hook. Start cladding it on, while he say flat, ‘I was told to vanish, santa reina. The deal was, I keep out of politics, and they don’t kill me.’

  Now my dread gone heavy. Want to only sleep somewhere, forget I ever hope for life.

  ‘It’s funny,’ Simón say on, ‘I told Anselm I was glad to be out of it, and it was true. I’m sick of it all. But when I heard the talk about Quantico … I guess you never get over some things.’

  ‘They ridding you for this, I guess. So you ain’t mess their plans.’

  ‘Yeah. And I thought they just hated me.’ He laugh short and look back to his old Maria picture. Gaze in suffering thought a moment, face gone tired beyond. Then he turn like sad decision. Take the pistol from his desk. Lodge it in a holder on his belt, and frown to me. ‘You should go now, santa reina. They’ll already know you’re here, so you don’t have a lot of time. Pedro will be at the barracks of Inúd by now, getting troops out after us. So what you need to do – find Anselm. Tell him what I said, and say you’re on their side. It’s the only side. Do that, and you could live for another fifty years.’

  I take empty breath. ‘Nay, it be done? You trying nothing?’

  ‘Me?’ He laugh sour. ‘No, I’m an idiot. I’ll try to get to my soldiers, and I’ll probably be dead inside an hour. But you should just try to live through this, senyora. It isn’t your fight.’

  52

  OF FIRST REBELLIONS

  Ride back from Loisaida be a worser desperation. I stare the broken streets, the littles racing in the trash, and think how it will be, when roos arrive. How, in church, apostles tell the rooish lies in ready voice. Children go obedient for the cure – and slave to wars afar. If any person try resistance, Anselm got all guns to use. These preparations done and done.

  And if I heed Simón, I be there also, faithful to their lies. Can hope they give me cure for Driver – be small price for my obedience. Is even chance, all Sengles save, to live uncounten years.

  But every other child go perish in the rooish wars. Only be enfants left, that roos will bandon for their uselessness – some hundred thousand enfants, that the city already poor to feed. These starving long, without no help.

  And I stare into the passing streets, and breed in rage.

  The car stop to the Ministerio. I come out to its hush of Navidad and empty night. Only be my feet to hear, gone crunching in the harden snow. Come up the steps, and in the entrance hall, the dandelions brighten lonely, seem to shine with cold.

  Here I pause and heed to nothing. I think, and grasp precaire, and always find new desperations – how soldiers of Inúd already coming, in their violent hundreds; how Sengles caught among, and be too many to hide, too weak to flee. How I be small and ignorant, in a world apostles rule all years.

  But soon I see my single choice. It be a hope without myself, a chance beyond my life.

  And I grit at my unwant. I turn into my fear. Stalk to the wooden door that open to the underfloors of work.

  These worker stairs is narrow plain. Must hike my skirt and lift its heavy tail across my arm; step cautieuse in heely shoes. I come into the unlit hall below and pass the kitchen self, where children clattering–talking still, cook Navidad feasts in preparation. Glass in its door be smeary wet, they show like struggling ghosts. Yo I go onward, loosing down my skirts, toward the guardroom’s noise.

  This be a room of humble use. Walls brown from yeary cigarettes; the carpet thin as Vember grass. This night of festival season, all the working guards be there. Also be kitchen girls in grease attire, sit drinking restful wine. Ya, Tamara Ten be by, and Pasha big among.

  Their larm be laughing shout, in personal English of their burrows. Be tossing darts and carden games. Some hunkern to a flop-ear puppy, say admirations while he chew ferocious at a shoe. One guard wrestle a kitchen girl upon a lopside sofa, while she laugh, ‘Your knee! Jo, mano!’

  When they notice me, this noise go out like quenchen flame. Guard leap off the kitchen girl, and she sit up with panic eyes. Even Pasha look alarm, put down his shope of wine.

  I get sorry inklings self, how this fiesta ruin. A moment, I magine how I leave them in their happy ignorance. Choose safety, and seek Anselm for confessions, how Simón expect. Yo, this cowardesse feel right; like every world desire this cowardesse, and call it wisdom.

  But I say in faltering voice, ‘My children, need your help. Truth, I got no one else to trust.’

  They stare back uncomprehending. Can see how Pasha’s eyes misgive. A kitchen girl look scary to a guard, then bite her lip.

  ‘What it is,’ I say on stronger, ‘be asking that you go tonight, tell every child about the roos. You seek the barracks first – tell any soldiers you can find. Most importance be, how roos steal children for their wars.’

  They all look frightening to each other. A girl say in confusing voice, ‘Get prison, what we get from that. That’s stuff I didn’t even like to know.’

  ‘Is prison for tell
secrets,’ Julio say.

  Bean scoff nervy. ‘Military secrets, what they’re calling that. We was told what happens if we tell that story. Lots of details.’

  ‘Ain’t fearing this,’ I say up louder. ‘Soon it be no prisons left. What I learn tonight – it ain’t no search they do in Massa. They going there to sell you to the roos. Apostles want the cure themself – and only for themself. All other people here be sold like meat.’

  Then begin impatient time of questions, ya and scary cavils. I must explain the falsen search three times; explain three times, how good Simón been kept in ignorance. And I explain again–again what they can do in help. How they must go to every barracks. Tell the soldiers there and call them out to brave resistance.

  Through this, their mood begin to quicken. Fury grow, infecting through them all in righteousness. When any child talk scary, the others badger him with scorn. Is only Pasha silent, face gone whiter while the noise increase.

  Ya, sudden in this ferment, Tamara Ten ask in exciting voice, ‘Senyora, does the penals know?’ Around, the talk go hushing, while I narrow on her eary face.

  I say, ‘Ain’t guess they known before. But now they caught by roos themself.’

  ‘No, but they’s in Loisaida.’ Tamara make a priding smile. ‘I just heard tonight, but they was there two days at least. Down in the projects, where they are.’

  The kitchen girl say in, ‘I heard that. In the Reese, what people said.’

  ‘The Reese?’ I say confusing.

  ‘They’s projects,’ say Tamara. ‘In the Loisaida River.’

  ‘Goddamn, they here?’ I say, ‘Is anyone spoken to they penals?’

  ‘They’s hiding, why it’s there.’ Tamara shrug. ‘Course you can’t speak to them.’

  ‘Reese, it’s in the floods there. Half in water,’ say the kitchen girl. She put a hand up to her waist to show.

  ‘Yeah,’ Bean say, ‘criminals hide out there. It’s nasty work to get them. It’s a tall old building, you know, and you’re in a boat … if they got guns, bye bye.’

  I bite on my nerves a minute. Try to figure how this meaning, that the penals all escape. But can find no sense.

  At last, I only say, ‘The penals ain’t our problems. Nor we can stand all hours discussing. Now, you go. Be losing time.’

  Then Pasha speak up, sudden harsh. ‘Nay. Anselm’s people come for you. If be no guards–’

  ‘That’s right,’ a girl say frighten. ‘That could happen.’

  ‘Yes, they come for me!’ I say annoying. ‘Nor no few guards can help. They kill you also, any child who know. Now go! I keep myself. Ain’t want no child remaining! Go!’

  They scatter then like sudden fire. Guards snatching rifles from all corners, duck to fetch their coats. Girls rush with frighten step. Tamara push behind, is giggling high with littlish nerves.

  This noisy minute pass outside and dwindle up the stairs. Leave only smoky trails from cigarettes in silent air; the puppy in a corner, licking at a carpet stain. Ya, be Pasha grim.

  Then the bandon quiet hurt my nerves. Feel like nothing been. And in the hush, can hear Simón his certainty, his tired despair: I’ll probably be dead inside an hour. You should just try to live through this.

  And Pasha say, ‘Come, Ice. We leaving.’

  ‘Cannot,’ I say thoughtless. ‘Must be here.’

  ‘Must?’ His voice catch angry. ‘You need to die?’

  When I look, his body grown with rage, his face be empty white.

  ‘Guards,’ Pasha say. ‘You knowing, some be spies?’

  I shrug. ‘Yo sho, be some.’

  ‘You known? And where they gone, they telling Anselm. Soon be soldiers here.’

  I take a scary breath, touch to the sweat along my throat. ‘Soldiers already coming. Spies ain’t matter.’

  Then, without no farther word, he come and grab my arm. Start to the door, be dragging me behind with stagger feet.

  I slap at him in angry nerves. ‘You quit! We leave, and then they take my Sengles? We hide while they all kilt? Goddamn, you quit!’ I tug his fingers loose, pull free and stumble against a table.

  He frown savage, bluish eyes be like an angry blindness. ‘Why they killing Sengles? Ain’t no sense.’

  ‘Pasha, think! Do this so I come back. Anselm keep my children, and if I ain’t return–’

  ‘Nay.’ Pasha make disgusting face. ‘You magining. They never think this.’

  ‘Yes, they think! I knowing Anselm! Be the first he think.’

  ‘So Sengles hiding after.’

  ‘Pasha, I got no moods to fight! I want to see my Driver, before they come. You can flee. Ya, go! Wish you been safe.’

  He grit to this, say stubborn, ‘Nay, ain’t leave you.’

  ‘There, you see? You see?’

  We stare at each other for a second, breathing scary. Then his owlen face go soft. ‘How I can hide? Be obvious white. But if you only rid they clothes–’

  ‘Yo deaf! You heeding me? I going to see my brother now. Go to the Lowells there! They going to know some place to hide. You go!’

  He only shake his head, and I turn flinging to the hall. Trip stumbling on the stairs, and climb their second part with hands and feet. Keep expecting he will chase me, almost be a need. But I come to the top, and be no sound behind. And I go on.

  *

  In my iglesia rooms, be still, with heavy mood of sleep. I creep by littles, curlen in their makeshifts under chairs. Pass a tray of cocktails left undrunk, gone pale with melten ice. My heart beat in my throat, and I keep heeding by each window for the larm of cars, of soldier voice.

  Come to Driver’s sleeproom, and I slip inside like hunting, careful for my rustle skirt. Be thinking how I leave him sleeping. Cannot tell him nothing, only be to kiss his face.

  But as I start across the darken room, his voice come soft: ‘Ice Cream?’

  I catch in awful grief. ‘Ya, you can sleep. Was only–’

  A lamp come bright beside the bed, with Driver’s hand upon. He squint to me, say in his scratching voice, ‘You bone?’

  ‘Yo sho.’ I force a smile. ‘Been drinking below. For Navidad, you know how.’

  ‘Navidad, be right.’ He smile. ‘Physician said. She left for this.’

  ‘Can sit by you a minute? Ain’t need to talk.’

  ‘Be sure. Ain’t seen no one today.’ He flinch and cough his throat. Take breath behind, then smile again.

  I come, sit to the bedfoot. Look nervy to the yellowing lamp, the jar of pills that shine its glass. The covers rumple and confuse their broidery of stars; his arm lain dark across. Some paper tissues crumplen, white and delicate like flowers. This scene reflect soft in the window, with the moon behind-among. Yo, I hold this moment in my need. How the room be gentle quiet, only be his breath to hear. How my brother live, and I be living. That this be our life.

  In this, I go remember, when I been a foaly six, my Driver tell me that the moon be made of salt. Said it be some moon rains, when the salt come to the Earth. What salt be, is crumbs of tiny moon. For years, he never admit that this been fables. Ya when I cry, he say I be a moon for salty rain. But he never crying nothing. Earth child, what he be.

  I want to remind him this somehow, chuff him for his old lies. Tease him, how I always done, that he lose these prankish moods when he becoming sergeant. But it suffer in my mind. Can know now, why a sergeant lose his happy foolishness. Ain’t nothing for himself, and now I see – what I ain’t guess before – Driver never gladden to this work. Been always worries, and our Sengles always fewer, hungry grown. The happy year he made in ruling, he given us his last good life.

  Then Driver say into my thought, ‘Ain’t fearing it no more.’

  I look to him unready. When I comprehend, I shake my head. ‘Ain’t need to fear. We bring the cure. You only keep yourself.’

  ‘Nay.’ He take a heavy breath. ‘Be tired.’

  ‘Shoo, I only woken you. Why you tired.’

  ‘Nay. Been only think
ing, is gratty you can have this cure.’ He make a weary smile. ‘Give you time to get some enfants. How you shy from this, I ain’t know.’

  ‘Be why I need you living, brother,’ I say forcen light. ‘Myself ain’t making extra Stars. You get them for us both.’

  As I saying this, I hear a carren roar in distance. It grow and complicate, be dozen cars approaching loud. Now I still watch Driver’s face, but I be heeding to the night. A grief hysterical in my chest, but I will feel no grief.

  Driver say, ‘Be sorry, Ice. Been trying how I can.’

  ‘I know,’ I say distracting. ‘Truth, you keeping bone. You strong.’

  To this, his eyes go cheaten. He reach his hand to me. I take it, careful for its sores. Then it surprise in me, how Driver’s hand feel solid warm. It be a living hand, can heal.

  He say, ‘Mean something to me, how you try … the cure. It ain’t your blame.’

  Be gathering to answer when a shock of gunfire come below. I startle to my feet, and Driver loose my hand in quick surprise. Then he frown toward the window, like resenting this intrusion.

  ‘Is Navidad,’ I say in skinny voice. ‘Why it be guns. They shoot at the sky in their fiesta times, what Anselm told me.’

  ‘Shoot at the sky.’ Driver shake his head. ‘Be waste.’

  ‘Truth, they morons mostly. Yo, I got to be below.’ I try to bring a smile, but all my face feel strange and false.

  Driver’s eyes go disappointing. ‘Ain’t meant to grieve you, sister.’

  ‘Shoo, I come back,’ I lie, with guilty miseries in my gut. ‘Ain’t grieving me. Got work, but I come back. You only keep yourself.’

  53

  NOCHEBUENA ITS FIRST MURDERS

  Leave him, I be dead alive myself. Think of the windows by, if I can flee from their uncanny height. Magine how I hide beneath some bed, while soldiers kicking through. I feel how I must go. Face any guns, so they keep from my Sengles.

  I step inside the elevator, lean back to the wall. Doors close solid, and I close my eyes against my fear. Hear my breath come quick and angry, feel my final time departing as the elevator sink. Think how Driver hold my hand, and been like something lasting, safe to love. How I will never see him die, be safe from this forever. And the elevator gather underfoot. I frighten up.